Fleaguing the Jade
by Taleya
Summary: Kmeme again! Prompt: Non-sexual/Accidental Figging. Written after far too little sleep and far too much sugar. Movie!verse.


Fleaguing the Jade

By Taleya

I loathed this. I loathed it even as it excited me. The shouts, the very smell of money exchanging hands, hurried bets and the sweat of beer making my heart pound. I hated the fact that my friend was being reduced to this again, that he would be left bloodied and bruised, and all because of me.

Never again I had sworn. Never again. And so I had handed the paltry income over which I had no control to my dearest Holmes, who possessed nothing but control.

Unfortunately, even with my pocketbook now safely in the hands of my dear friend, my excesses at the card table had proven more costly to our funds than we had expected. We were at desperate ends indeed - my pension had all but dried up, frittered away on useless games and the few cases Holmes would later build his immense career upon were but a mere trickle, and far between at that. Mrs. Hudson was a patient woman, but her patience only stretched so far - she herself was far from rich and could scarcely afford the louche intrusions of two feckless layabouts on her property.

Holmes had taken action with his usual aplomb, brushing aside my apologies and shame with a single, graceful gesture. I would no doubt curse myself as I bound and bandaged his wounds, he said - but at least I would do so from the comfort of a roof over my head and a fire to warm myself beside, rather than suffer the deprivations of a London winter.

And besides, he was a _magnificent_ pit fighter.

The last of our money was wagered on him, and wagered heavily. Thankfully the crowd tonight differed from the usual group; it seemed that luck was on our side as few believed the small, scruffy figure could hold out against the shaven-headed bully boys who usually frequented the ring.

Unfortunately there are always those who are either unable or unwilling to place their trust in seemingly self-evident facts, and instead move to force the hand of fate.

The first indicator that something was badly wrong came when Holmes stumbled against the ring. Thankfully he had not yet entered it - a fight was already raging in the pit, two meat-packers from the East end slogging away at each other like giants at war. Holmes had been jostled by the crowd, a group of ruffians buffeting him to and fro, laughing a little, looking for all the world like a child on a sailboat. But then he stumbled - and the motion was so unexpected, so graceless, the clutch of his hand on my sleeve and shaky whisper of my name indicating a thousand things were wrong.

"Holmes?" I clutched his shoulder as he turned, pulling him into my arms as his knees gave way, my shout lost beneath the roar of the crowd. "_Holmes!_"

"..'son," he slurred.

I dragged him away from the circle, into an abandoned corner, my hands at his chest, fumbling for my pocketwatch. His heart beat slowly, but strongly, eyes unnaturally bright and glittering in the dark. With a fumbling motion, he pawed at his sleeve, head lolling back against the wall.

I rolled back the cloth and cursed at the bruise blooming there. Doped. He'd been doped. Teeth bared, I cast about for those responsible, but it was impossible to tell; in such close quarters any one of the ruffians about us could have performed the act. He was in no shape to fight, that much was certain - his muscles were limp and languid, legs unstable. I shook his shoulders, but his head flapped as weakly as that of a ragdoll. A vaguely pleasant smile was fixed upon his features, eyes unfocused and huge under his unruly bangs. Desperately I slapped his face - it was too late now to back out, all of our money would be lost, and our home with it. If I'd only had my gladstone bag, there were all manner of stimulants I could administer, but it was locked safely away in my cosy garett at the top of the stairs in Baker street. A garett I would no longer have.

We were in dire straits indeed.

I had a pennyworth of ginger in my pocket. To tell the truth I had been planning on making tea with it - but now it would have to serve a far more brutal purpose.

"Forgive me, old friend," I whispered, palming the root in my hand. Then I bent him over a nearby bench and slipped that hand down the back of his trousers.

I have seen many battles in my life. I was present at the horrific rout of Maiwand; I have seen both the best and worst of mankind. I have seen the horrific depravities men will inflict on each other in the heat of battle; I have seen badly wounded men raise their weapons and defend a few scant inches of sand with a scream of defiance on their dying breaths. But even in all this, I have never seen anything as awe-inspiring as Sherlock Holmes with a pennyworth of ginger up his arse.

He leapt the wooden barrier around the ring as if it were nothing but a scrap of detritus in his path. The battle between the meat packers was still ongoing, but this seemed of little consequence to him. Screaming like a devil, he dispatched both of them with actions so fast they seemed almost acts of god. One staggered back, hands clutching a badly broken nose, courtesy of my friends hard head, then fell against the barrier with an audible crack, hunched over a slew of broken ribs. The second lasted a mere moment longer before simply fleeing, barging through the gates and taking to his heels in the face of a vengeful shiva.

Holmes opponent leapt into the ring, no doubt fuelled by foolish bravado and the heady roar of the crowd at this unexpected spectacle. He barely had time to posture before Holmes' eyes fixed upon him, wild as a stallions, rolling in his head. My friend charged, feckless and wild and the younger man caught him by the neck, employing Coolie methods of fighting, beating him viciously about the face. He may as well have struck an elephant with an ink-pen for all the good it seemed to do him; Holmes barely shook off the blows before bellowing and straightening his spine, headbutting the man with such force he was instantly struck insensate.

A sudden, awed silence spread across the room as Holmes stood there, panting, twitching. I hurriedly made my way through the silent throng, snatching at our winnings, then turned to see the crowd had parted, leaving nothing but bare floor between myself and my friend.

Holmes' eye fell upon me, and a low growl began to issue from his throat. I backed away, hastily stuffing pound notes into my pockets as he advanced, then finally took to my heels as he began to charge, fleeing into the night and desperately wishing for an elephant gun.

He would forgive me, I assured myself as I pelted through the cobbled streets, cursing my old wound. He would rationally assess the situation and of course confirm that I had taken the proper course of action.

Eventually.

I was sure of it.


End file.
